SOMETHING FOR THE VAPORS AND VIPERS, THE CONDUCTORS AND PLAYERS, THE WHORES AND ANGELS, AND THE MEMORIES OF MAGIC

Random musings
on a lazy Saturday
as I scratch against
the advancing cold
that hints at the coming
winter.
I still sit outside
at a table sipping
coffee in the slate gray
moistness that indicates
snow not too far off
and the emptiness that is
closer.
Bundled up,
with sweater, and shirt,
and undershirt and scarf,
and hat I smoke
a cigarette
in a purified New York
and look at the young legs
and faces thinking
of all the loves
I've betrayed.
The most basic of things
I've had to learn
last. How I once
could of thought myself
brave, escapes
me now.
I was the cheapest
of tricks; a ventriloquist's
dummy speaking the words
that helped silence
my fears.

Memory lies
of course.
It's not its fault.
Even now
when I think of the music
of love
it is not
with the grandeur of Mahler,
the nuance and beauty of Bach,
the titanic battle of Bee;
nor with the eccentricities of Monk
or the harmonic brilliance of Miles,
but the simplicity of song.
The softness of voice
cushioning pain, muffling
thought; pretending
to care--which is really
all I ever wanted. Here,
listen:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=osVaF4t-zFc
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWGn_-MeuZ8
www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsgL35RCGcc
www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQRV4NM2O1g
See,
see what I mean?
Simple,
like slugs fucking;
hardly have to think
about it at all.
That's what I could have been:
a slug, a dog, a whale,
chimp or a wisp
of pollen
in the heated air.
Not at all the rogue,
nor the halfback running
through the field
of broken girls and women.

Now,
unfortunate only for me,
my maleness dangles
like a rope; something
to piss through.
It amuses me
still
to do this; this writing,
this talking, to all
the unseen
who are now breathing
on this page. You
have your own lies
to keep you busy
should you choose to.
You have your own passions
to either cultivate
or long for. They are all
sweet
and delicious ramblings
that take you outdoors
for walks
and talks
and daring confrontations.
My advice to you
is the same I give
to myself:
Dress appropriately,
and don't forget
to take
your
keys.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012